Sand
by greysnyper
Summary: Aristophane's aristocrat denied.


Today had been quiet for the city. And it was all by your hand,  
withheld. No movement made and the city was standing still. Not that  
the possibilities had grown unthought though. You had a list of things  
mentally drawn up. A device here. Timer hid there. Rush hour traffic  
or that class field trip to the aquatic center. Another bus hijacked  
and sent speeding to the Bay. None of it happened. Yet you weren't the  
only one thinking of possibilities.

If that mask wasn't so well placed, removed or discarded, the eyes  
would tell these stories. The ease the paranoia took over that  
childlike face was commendable. Not in whole the work of your hand,  
but you had helped. If the Dark Knight hadn't beaten the point in with  
calculated discipline, the darker nights in that other twisted city  
would have. This city here and now was safe. If it grew loud and  
dangerous, you were usually the cause. It wasn't the Shadow in Gotham  
that inspired the twitch in the boy.

Today had been quiet for the city. Yet there were still noises  
wavering on the air. Sounds that could not come about if you had  
reacted naturally, leaving clues, pressing little red buttons and  
watching eight-wheelers careen down the road with no regard for  
stopping. These sounds were shrill and artless. Unstudied pitches and  
coloured garments took flight. Carelessly thrashing across dirt and  
sand, several mismatched limbs scurried to test chilly depths. A quiet  
day, sunny and untempered heat, meant a day at the beach. And here  
there were no people save those who were used to lounging beneath the  
tower. At certain levels, the glass windows reflected them in  
distorted shapes. With ardent hearing, you experienced their  
expressionable words. Inquiring if it would ever be safe again to  
fully unclothe themselves now that there was an Atalantian member  
amongst their ranks. It would never be, though you sometimes yearned  
he would have less sense. Feel safe enough in this city to give up the  
costume as he did now, and once before for your intentions. That the  
swim attire would go as well, and with it, the kelvar screen veiling  
his eyes. But it was a weakness to be too trusting in a world of  
experienced lunatics. He would not betray himself this weakness to,  
like the other two children with him, strip to skin and entertain the  
water.

Unlike his larger counterpart, the boy did not gradually creep forth  
to fully understand the salty temperature. Impulsive and perhaps even  
eager to allow his hair to cling to his forhead and adopt a more  
informal charm, he was submerged within an instant of contact. The  
surface breached to allow him air you wouldn't be too giving with, and  
he spit saline liquid and made a face so unfitting with the mask on.  
It was hours. Hours of self discipline as you shadowed yourself, an  
arsenal of destruction just inches from your reach. And an open  
invitation for retribution unnoticing beneath you in the waves.

The red shorts were contrast to the smokey ocean and he would  
disappear for moments at a time in foam washes, reappearing to spring  
on whomever possessed the beach ball, or to submerge his green partner  
because he knew that he could hold the other struggling without any  
danger. More than once palp would entwine themselves along his pale  
arms and attempt retention. You had to restrain yourself especially  
then.

Hours. Quiet hours for a city save a beach. He sat at the waters edge  
and packed damp handfuls of earth around his feet in blatent  
disrespect for the finely crafted yet discarded boots behind him. And  
as the sun gave up its fury for a duskier shade behind the tower,  
towels were collected and you watched him methodically rub sand from  
his ear and brush off those trunks, unwilling to convert his  
outfitting in the open. There were smirks and natural laughter that  
accompanied their exit. A clear path lead from their favored spot,  
yours, back home. Two greatful for the opportunity. Yours silently  
pondering, you knew, as to the reasons behind their present freedom.

There were audible cracks in your shins while you rose. Hours, filled  
with observation. You had not moved, despite his best efforts to tempt  
you. In the drawing shadows they would be washing now, home for  
sometime before the beach sensed your presence. A small fortress,  
intrecately detailed, was the work of the machine. You passed it  
without a glance, finding other works shared by the sand. A handprint.  
His elbow had rested here before the grit of individual grains had  
pierced enough skin to make it uncomfortable. There had been a crease  
in the shorts that was made obvious as his weight had pressed it flat.  
One of your contriving blue eyes took this in, appreciative. The other  
recorded.

He had sat here. He had played here. He would come here often to  
watch the Bay and the city he silently preserved as you silently  
plotted. The sand told you this. His print on it would be gone in an  
hour though. The tide was snaking its way with destruction of your  
work threatened. This was something you could not even prevent. Save  
for a lot of explosives.

The moon was overrated anyways.

* * *

Author's Notes: The next installment has Slade blowing up the moon!!!

Okay. I lie. No next installment. This was a drabble inspired by one of the lectures my Greek Civ. class experienced. To fully understand the connection, I recommend you read Aristophane's "Clouds".

But since none of you ever will...I'm not obliged to explain this. Happy New Year!


End file.
